Ricochet
by Gwinne
Summary: Asami Ryuichi lives in a dangerous world, and as Takaba learns, being in that world can have some devastating consequences.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**: 

Hello! Thanks for checking out this VF fic. Feel free to skip right to the start because I was going to make a note about where this fic (that wasn't originally meant to exist) came from but it's a little 'me-centric' and some people came here for the story! :)

So, everyone has their preferred writing and plotting styles, and me … well, I usually work on a rotational basis, where if I'm working on multiple stories, I rotate through them all so that I don't abandon anything. When I do work on a story, I like to let the characters move around in my mind a bit so I get a sense of what they're thinking, feeling, and how they'd react to plot points. Having just played around a bit in the VF fandom, I was moving on to one of the original stories I had going on the fly. I safely tucked Asami and Takaba away, and started work on an original Cold War, spy, Tom Clancy-esque story (but with a dash of romance … err, who am I kidding, with a big dose of romance) that I'd been putting together. But for some odd reason, Takaba was still sticking around in my head (as mentally unbalanced as that may sound), and he demanded the role I'd put together for one of my own characters. I tried to remove it from him, but he's quite a stubborn guy when it comes down to it. So, I guess it's his funeral (and I personally don't think Asami would approve). As a result, I've just adapted my story to work in the VF universe a bit, so I hope this works out!

Please enjoy the beginning of _Ricochet_. Happy reading! :)

Cheers,  
G.

(***)

_Ricochet  
Prologue_

(***)

Takaba Akihito awoke to a world of pain. Everything hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt. Even his hair hurt. He was afraid to move.

What had happened? Where the fuck was he?

He was groggy, the edges of his vision lined with a fuzzy frame that obscured everything in his periphery. No, wait. His eye was swollen, he realized. He tried to blink, but his right eye just would not close properly. He cursed inwardly.

Why couldn't he remember what had brought him to this state? Why were his thoughts so muddled? What was that god-awful noise? And was he drooling?

He felt a sticky wetness against the corner of his mouth, and was pretty sure there was a telltale trail along the side of his face because something tacky pressed against the skin of his cheek where it met the floor. For some reason, he had an irrepressible urge to laugh, to outright laugh so loud that he would probably be labeled a maniacal basketcase by the unknowing observer.

Why? Why was that? Lying face down in a pool of one's own drool with a body that was beaten to hell and back was certainly no laughing matter.

Funny.

Or was it? A low chuckle escaped before he could stop it, followed by a painful hiss as his ribs protested the rumbling. Damn, he must've been involved in some jacked up shit to end up like this. Too bad he just couldn't remember a single thing about it.

He shifted his leg and let out a sigh of relief when the movement didn't cause any discomfort. At least there were parts of him still working. Gaining a little more confidence, he decided to push himself up, and met with a white hot flash of pure agony when he tried to do so.

He swore, loudly and vehemently, but his voice came out more as a croak than intelligible words. God, his lips were cracked and his throat felt drier than the Sahara. His wrist, from what he could see and feel, was twice its normal size. Even the slightest motion sent red-hot spikes of pain lancing through his body.

Broken.

There was no way he was using that anytime soon. With great effort, he rolled himself over. That simple action took so much out of him that he had to pause a moment and breathe quick, shallow breaths until the room came back into its fuzzy focus.

That was when he heard it again. That loud blast of noise. Echoing. So far away. So close.

Shots, he concluded. Guns fired, and bullets ricocheting.

Asami! It had to be Asami. His scattered brain instantly latched onto the idea of Asami like a drowning man to a lifeline. He had to get to him. He had to get to Asami because he was in trouble. He had to save him!

He didn't know how he did it, but he managed to stand up on wobbly legs. He supposed that by now, his mind had decided to cut off all communication from his body because frankly, he couldn't really feel anything.

Numb.

More gunshots sounded through his skull and he shook his head in a futile effort to stop the ringing. Step after staggering step, he made his way out of the room he'd woken up in, injured arm cradled against his side and knees threatening to give out the whole way.

The journey itself was a blur to him, an endless progression down a flickering fluorescent corridor and into an open space where the loud racket he'd been hearing hurt enough to make him wince.

His foot hit something. He looked down and saw the body of a man, limbs outstretched and with empty, glazed eyes.

Dead.

Takaba didn't recognize him. But he did recognize what the corpse held in its hand. He needed it, didn't he? Yes, he did. He needed it. He bent down and pried the gun from the dead man's fingers with his uninjured arm. He gritted his teeth at the effort that required and managed to keep moving forward.

The gunshots were so close. Asami was so close now.

As if willing him into existence, Takaba finally found the man when he turned the next corner. He retreated back behind said corner to better hide himself and leaned against the wall for support. He saw him, his lover, the bastard who'd turned his whole life upside down. He was there, partially obscured by some heavy machinery, shooting his semi-automatic with cool, calculated efficiency.

A small smile worked its way onto Takaba's lips. It felt like a dream, airy and yet, so real. Asami was here.

More shots were fired. Takaba heard thudding, and he watched as two bodies fell to the ground near him. So much fighting. So much death.

Pity.

And then he saw him … a man about to kill Asami. Gun raise and trigger ready, the would-be killer had Asami in his sights.

Asami. His Asami.

"No!" he screamed. But no sound came out of his useless throat. Instead, he raised his own gun - a cold, hard weight in his hand - and shot. The recoil sent him to the ground, the wall no longer providing the support he needed. His target crashed to the floor at the same time he did, and he let out a cry of triumph.

"Takaba!"

Asami was calling him. He looked over at his lover, running toward him with fury and panic on that usually controlled face. Asami, panicking? Had hell frozen over? Why hadn't anyone told him?

Takaba grinned stupidly at the rare sight. It was the last thing he saw before the world began to spin around and around.

Blackness.

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**:

Hello!

I just wanted to post this before November starts. I'm going to give that whole Nanowrimo thing another shot after taking several years off, and from what I recall, all my time for the next month will be spoken for, so I don't think I would be able to work on this much.

Before starting this chapter, I'd like to mention two **warnings**:

- The story may be a little hard to follow at first since it will be following two plotlines simultaneously for a bit (past and present storylines will be revealed at the same time). My apologies for this, but I've plotted them to converge near the end.  
- The end of this chapter may be a little disturbing in content for some (I've tried to tone down the graphicness of it to keep it within the rating system on this site). Please read at your discretion.

Other than that, please enjoy! Until December, happy reading!

Cheers,  
Gwinne  
(Oct. 2012)

(***)

_Ricochet  
Chapter 1_

(***)

_Twelve weeks later ..._

"You're not going."

Asami watched as Takaba froze in the middle of the living room, his spine stiffening at the ultimatum. Had the photographer been a dog, he was certain he would've seen hackles rising at that very moment.

Takaba pivoted around and glared at him, the morning sun flashing off a mix of anger and stubbornness in those brown eyes. "Why?" he ground out.

"Because it's too soon." His voice was cold, demanding, and left no room for defiance.

But defy him Takaba did, just as he had always done. "No, it's not. See! I'm fine. Got the cast taken off a week ago." To prove his point, the younger man waved his left hand in front of himself with exaggerated movements. "It's a bit skinny right now, but I'll only get my muscle tone back if I _do_ something. And besides, I don't think a fashion shoot in a secure studio is going to take too much out of me."

Asami held his gaze steady, refusing to be swayed despite the other man's vigorous arguments.

Takaba returned his look, but after a minute of silence, he let out an exasperated sigh, and allowed his shoulders to slump slightly. "Look, Asami," he continued and walked over. "We talked about this, remember? You can't cage me for the rest of my life. I'm strong, and I can survive anything thrown at me." Takaba smiled a small, reassuring smile. "Besides, don't you have some important work to worry about tonight? It's all I hear Kirishima talk to you about."

'Hear'... as in 'eavesdrop', Asami thought absently. Nevertheless, at seeing the photographer standing there right in front of him, something in his chest tightened. Yes, Takaba was strong, and he was a survivor, yet three months ago ... three months ago, he was anything but. And the whole event had revealed to Asami that no matter how much power or money he had, he was not immune to the gnawing fangs of fear.

Giving in to a sudden urge, Asami raised his hand and cupped the side of his young lover's face. Silky strands of hair tickled his fingers and the well-defined cheekbones and jaw felt so vulnerable beneath his palm. Takaba looked at him inquiringly, but Asami said nothing as he pulled the younger man in for a kiss. Their lips met each other with equal fervor, and although his groin stirred with an all-too-familiar need, he tempered the kiss so that he didn't completely consume his lover. His tongue darted out to assertively taste the sweetness of his companion's mouth, stroking and commanding as was his right. And only when Takaba's arms wrapped around his neck and a lustful moan escape the boy's throat did he decide to pull away.

The photographer watched him with an accusatory expression, slightly breathless and with distractingly kiss-swollen lips. "What was that?"

He straightened and adjusted his already immaculate tie. "Me acquiescing."

Almost instantly, Takaba brightened.

"But you take a couple of the men."

And just as quickly, the boy's mood was dampened. Asami did not regret saying it. He knew Takaba was formulating a protest that very second, but he pre-empted it before it could be hear. "As you've said, we've talked about this. If I give, you give."

Whatever unspoken words had danced on Takaba's tongue died at Asami's reminder. Letting out a resigned breath, the photographer turned and walked over to pick up his camera case off the coffee table. "Fine."

Asami could tell by the boy's body language that he didn't like it, but he would tolerate it. "And no ducking out on them," he warned as an afterthought.

Takaba threw him a mischievous look before grabbing his jacket off the sofa and running out the door. A resounding click echoed through the condo, and Asami looked reflectively at the space where his young lover had been. The boy was so damned resilient, it sometimes shocked even him ... a hardened soul who'd just about seen everything life had to offer. That smile, that stubbornness, that spirit ...they had all been tested so many times that Asami sometimes wondered - and feared - if the next disaster, the next attack, would be the one to break it all ... the one to shatter everything that was Takaba and leave no possible way of putting him back together.

(***)

_Twelve weeks ago ..._

Takaba did not belong here. He was too vibrant, too alive for this sterile place. Asami cast an assessing look around the private clinic room, and effectively hid the disgust that threatened his usually reserved demeanor. Weak sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains, highlighting the lone chair and simple bed that comprised all the furniture in the room. The clock, hung on the far side of the space, ticked away with incessant impudence, its regular, rhythmic sound taunting him with its disregard for everything around it. And the walls ... the stark, white walls mocked him with their blandness, so much so that he fought the need to punch a hole through them.

Hoping it wouldn't come to that, he dropped his gaze to the unconscious body on the bed. Takaba's breathing had steadied now to that of someone in a deep sleep, a far cry from the condition he had found the boy in two days ago. The bruising and swelling on the side of his face seemed less pronounced, and although it was still a dramatic contrast against the pristine sheets, he assumed that only meant Takaba was healing.

He reached down and ran the tips of his fingers gently through the matted hair. He closed his eyes and let out a short breath. He had almost lost the brat. He had almost lost Takaba. For two months, the boy had somehow dropped off the ends of the earth, and it had taken him weeks before he and his men had finally gotten a break as to his whereabouts. To his dying day, he would never admit it, but he had never known as much fear as that time when Takaba had disappeared, or the day he had found him, half-beaten to death in that factory.

He pulled his hand back, and clenched them into a fist. He had been responsible. He knew that. He had been responsible by virtue of his position alone, and he accepted that. And somehow, however unknowingly, he had forced Takaba to accept it as well.

A soft knock at the door caused him to step back from the bed, unconsciously preserving his mask of emotional detachment.

He looked up and watched Kirishima tread quietly into the room, a clipboard in hand.

"Takaba's charts, sir," the secretary said as he handed the said board over.

Asami took the thing and started flipping through the sheets. He'd chosen this clinic because he had everyone who worked in it on his payroll, and he appreciated the discretion it provided. An added bonus was the competency and thoroughness of the staff his money afforded.

But it was that thoroughness that compounded his anger as the details of Takaba's condition sunk in. His grip tightened on the clipboard and his jaw clenched. He was angry - there was no doubt about that - and he knew his eyes likely reflected deadly intent as a result. Luckily, Kirishima had been around him long enough not to be fazed.

Asami handed the charts back. "Did you find anymore leads?"

"Some, sir. We're following up on them right now."

"Good." There was gruffness in his voice he couldn't fully contain. "I want that asshole found. And when he is, I want to know immediately. He and I have unfinished business to complete."

(***)

_Present ..._

"Good morning, Kirishima."

Kirishima nodded in greeting as Takaba hurried past him to press the elevator button. "Good morning, Takaba. Where are you off to so early?"

The photographer threw him a sunny smile. "Work."

"And Asami permitted this?"

Takaba shrugged. "More or less. Better get in there quickly though. He's feeling quite magnanimous right now."

"In that case ..." Kirishima pulled out his cell phone and dialed a familiar number. He had been around his employer long enough to know exactly how he thought.

"Who are you calling?"

Kirishima looked at the other man with his most business-like expression. "Getting Suoh to assign you two men."

"What? Hey, no, wait. I'm good. Asami said I didn't have to."

The secretary raised an eyebrow. Had he been a vulgar man, he would've called bullshit on that statement. Suoh picked up within two rings and after a few perfunctory commands, the task was done. Takaba would have two men on him the moment he left the building.

"You're as bad as he is," the photographer grumbled.

Kirishima allowed his lips to quirk up slightly at the comment. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The elevator dinged and the doors slipped open at the moment. With a quick wave, Takaba hopped in, but not before Kirishima caught the younger man stick his tongue out at him before he did so. He shook his head, marvelling at the recovery the boy had made in three short months.

Deciding to ignore the photographer's antics, he entered the penthouse and found his employer clipping his weapon into its holster. "Sir," he said in greeting. "The car's ready."

Asami nodded, slipping into and buttoning his suit jacket. "And the meeting for tonight? Has everything been arranged?"

Kirishima checked his mental task list, and as usual, had a satisfactory response. "Yes, everything has been confirmed."

Ever since the 'incident', all activities had quieted down somewhat, as if the entire criminal underworld was awaiting some brilliant chess move with baited breath. It never surprised Kirishima the amount of power and influence his employer had over his enemies. And tonight would be a demonstration of that.

"I bumped into Takaba on the way in," Kirishima continued as his boss proceeded to place a box of Dunhills into his inner pocket. "I had Suoh assign him two men."

Asami made a sound of approval, and led the way out.

"He's made a remarkable recovery, sir. I didn't expect him to be working so soon," Kirishima remarked as he locked the door behind them.

"I didn't either."

"He ... he still doesn't remember anything though? About the two months he was kidnapped?"

Asami remained silent as they waited for the elevator. When it finally did arrive, he let out a subdued, "No."

Kirishima observed the slight shift in mood from his employer just then, but refrained from commenting. It was a blessing in disguise, he guessed, that Takaba remembered nothing of his time in captivity. Whether the hole in his memory was because of the inordinate number of drugs they'd found in his system, or a survival mechanism on the younger man's part, he didn't know, but either way, what had happened to Takaba would continue to remain a mystery.

(***)

_Ten weeks ago..._

The room was like any other office one might find in an outdated warehouse in a forgotten industrial district. The walls were dingy, the ceiling water-stained, and the linoleum floor could've used a good scrubbing - or twenty. A single pendulum light bulb hung casually in the middle of the room, casting a passable amount of light onto the battered wooden table and the two accompanying chairs, one of which was currently occupied by a bound man.

A loud crack cut through the air as Suoh delivered another wicked hook, his knuckles contacting the prisoner square in the meaty part of the cheek.

Kirishima watched impassively by the door, giving himself a moment to take in the tired scene before him. The whole torture/interrogation tableau was so cliché, it was almost laughable. Part of him wanted to affect the 'good cop' persona, just to see if the stories they told about that ruse would actually work in this scenario. But it was a passing fancy, and one that he pushed away instantly when he reminded himself who they had in their possession.

Kitagawa Ken had eluded them for over two and a half months, and had been the metaphorical thorn in their backside for several more before that. And now that they'd finally flushed him out, Kirishima definitely did not envy the man ... especially since his employer was on the way. Not that the man had said much anyways. He had simply sat there, hands bound behind him while taking the beating Suoh had generously doled out with that superior smirk on his face. Kirishima wondered absently if this was what Takaba had had to put up with during his two months in this man's clutches. It would've likely driven the young photographer to distraction.

The temperature in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees - or so it felt like to Kirishima - when an abnormally loud click echoed through the room and Asami Ryuichi walked in. Suoh immediately straightened and stepped back to allow his boss access to their captive. From what Kirishima could see, the bodyguard hadn't even broken a sweat after what he'd just done, and he marvelled at that as the larger man shifted discreetly to the other side of the room.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the great Asami Ryuichi, finally come to grace me with his presence from his castle high above our mortal world." Kitagawa's tone was meant to incite, prod, and irk. Even a common street thug could see that. But with his eyes brilliant from loathing, and his lip split from earlier, he just came across as slightly insane.

Kirishima watched with a hidden flash of pride as his employer remained undisturbed by the man's needling attitude. Instead, Asami removed his jacket and placed it carefully on the back of the unoccupied chair. His motions were calm and steady, as if he were simply getting ready to retire for the night.

"I was feeling a little insulted," Kitagawa tried again. "I'd been hoping to be received by you, the king of Tokyo's underworld himself. Instead, I get these shitheads you call subordinates."

Even though Kirishima knew he'd been insulted, it rolled off his impermeable skin. Asami continued on as if he hadn't even heard the man. With deft fingers, he unhitched his cufflinks and placed them casually on the table before slowly folding up his sleeves.

"Was it because I didn't provide enough of a challenge for you? Was it because I'm not worthy enough to be seen as your equal? Because I am, you know. You'll see."

For the first time, Kirishima heard something in Kitagawa's voice other than mocking bravado. Anger - subtle, but heated - laced those words, effectively hiding the underlying jealousy and insecurities of a small-minded man. He noticed it, and he was certain his boss and Suoh did as well.

Choosing to ignore it, Asami walked over to Suoh and held out his hand. Without a sound, Suoh relinquished the butterfly knife he kept concealed on his body, and continued to observe with a stony expression as Asami made his way back to their prisoner.

Kitagawa kept his attention locked on his captor, his eyes taking on a deadly gleam. It was such a contrast to his employer, Kirishima noted. Asami's face, his whole being even, gave no hint of emotion, save only the sense of cool, logical confidence.

"Admit it," Kitagawa said in a softer tone. "I gave you quite a chase. I even hit you where it hurts."

No response to the goading was forthcoming save for the snapping of the knife in Asami's hand as the blade was exposed.

That smirk turned more sinister. "How is the little prince, by the way?"

Asami sat down on the empty chair across the table from Kitagawa, the very definition of civility. His mien was impassive, unreadable, but behind those golden eyes was a mind that Kirishima hoped never to make an enemy.

"Are you a religious man, Kitagawa?" Asami asked conversationally.

The bound man seemed a little taken aback by the question, but he played along. "I don't see what that has to do with anything. But not particularly."

A deceptively bland smile graced Asami's lips as he leaned forward and examined the weapon in his hands. "I'm curious. I'm wondering if you're familiar with Christianity, or more specifically, the contents of Exodus."

Kirishima noticed Kitagawa slouch back in his chair, that annoying sneer still on his face. The man would regret that.

"Discover God all of a sudden, Ryuichi?"

Without warming, Asami rose. Chair legs scraped loudly against the floor, and all eyes were glued to the leonine grace of the commanding man with the knife as he walked around the table to cut the zip ties binding Kitagawa's wrists. "I'm partial to the 'If there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye' part," Asami said as the snap of the plastic bonds was heard. "I believe it's in the primary scriptures of Judaism too."

Kitagawa rubbed his newly freed wrists and made no comment.

"You asked how Takaba was." That tall, imposing body slowly circled the prisoner like a predator would its prey. "Well, there were so many drugs in his system that he couldn't even think straight. Barbiturates, LSD, the list goes on." In a movement so quick that Kirishima almost missed it, his employer's free arm lashed out, his fist contacting the side of the captive's head with enough force to send Kitagawa toppling to the floor. All that could be heard in the room was the dull thud of a falling body and the clatter of the chair.

"Probably feels like that, only a hundred times worse," Asami added. "But you knew that already."

Kitagawa took a minute to pull himself off the ground. Then, as he righted his chair and sat back down, he laughed. The sound grated. "Yes," he said, continuing the conversation as if he hadn't just been smashed in the face. "The little cunt was fucking begging for them after the first few doses."

Asami's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Only someone who knew all of the man's idiosyncrasies, like Kirishima did, would've noticed the reaction. But the deadly yakuza leader did not let it affect his course of action. "And his wrist was broken."

Before Kitagawa could react, Asami leaned over, grabbed his prisoner's hand and staked it to the table with the knife. Kirishima didn't know how much force his boss had put into it, but the blade had disappeared almost to the hilt, likely piercing skin, sinew, bone, and a good part of the table.

Yet, Kitagawa gave no major indication that he felt anything of the mutilation to his hand. He met Asami's eyes with his own and held it with fevered intensity. His jaw twitched, whether from pain, excitement, or a combination of both, Kirishima didn't know. "You trying to torture me, Ryuichi?" he ground out tightly. "This is beneath you. Why don't you just get it over with? Take out your gun and just shoot me."

Asami bent down to look at the man face to face. "Too easy," he said quietly. And with that, he yanked the knife out of Kitagawa's hand and stabbed it into the man's eye.

A strangled cry filled the room as the prisoner fell to the ground once more, his hands desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood and vitreous fluid that leaked from the socket where his eye used to be. This time, Kirishima couldn't suppress a wince.

"Did I mention a fractured orbital?" Asami continued. "I guess that 'eye for an eye' saying is fairly universal."

"Fuck you!" Kitagawa grunted out, legs kicking out like a floundering fish as obscenity after obscenity streamed from his throat.

"Not until I'm done fucking with you first." Without mercy, Asami straddled the flailing man and crouched down. Still making use of the bloodied knife, he steadied his target and sliced open Kitagawa's shirt.

From where he was standing, Kirishima saw the various markings on the man's exposed chest, a melange of complicated, tattooed designs that he couldn't make out save for the stylized dagger that ornamented the space above the heart.

Asami noticed too, and gave one of his enigmatic smirks. "Ironic," he whispered humorlessly. Then, bracing himself firmly on the ground, he said, "There were also multiple cracked ribs and abdominal bruising."

Kirishima had to look away from what happened next. He heard the screamed curses and the cries of pain, but what seemed oddly amplified was the quiet swish of that sharp blade as it tore through skin and muscle and organs. His attention travelled from the intricate spider web in the far corner to the peeling paint on the doorframe to the pile of garbage on the other side of the room. It finally came to rest on Suoh's hardened face. The bulky guard had continued to stand stoically at his station the whole time and monitor the actions of their employer, but after only another minute, Kirishima noticed a slight flinch manifest itself on the man's right cheek before he looked away. It must've been a sight, if even Suoh had to avert his eyes. Eventually, their gazes met, and a silent understanding passed between them. What was transpiring right now pitted their loyalty to Asami Ryuichi against their sense of human decency. Loyalty easily won out.

Kirishima didn't know how much time passed, but when the sounds died down, he looked back, stomach somewhat uneasy at what he would witness. Asami had finished his work, and was meticulously wiping his hands with his handkerchief. Ever the dutiful secretary, he quickly moved forward and offered his own as well when the other one had been liberally stained. Then, without a word, he moved to re-fasten his employer's cufflinks. He focused all his concentration on getting the silver stems through the loops, all the while avoiding the mess he would see if he glanced over in Kitagawa's direction.

"Let him bleed out and then clean this filth up," Asami ordered once his shirt was put to rights.

Kirishima nodded and only after he took another fortifying breath did he look over to his next task.

Kitagawa - or what had once looked like him - was a mess of red gashes and sliced skin. Deep crimson rivulets, looking almost black in the soft incandescent light, oozed from open wounds on his chest, some of which were beginning to coagulate into clumps against sticky flesh. Some cuts were shallow, but some, like those along the man's stomach, were deep and long ... so much so that Kirishima was certain he glimpsed a piece of Kitagawa's bowels amongst the pooling fluids. Still, all of the wounds had been so methodically and strategically inflicted as to cause the maximum amount of pain without immediately killing the victim. In fact, this could be considered, in some twisted sadistic sort of way, a masterpiece.

Kitagawa moaned and twitched, so he was still alive.

"Not ... over ..."

And remarkably, he was still conscious.

Asami had just finished buttoning his suit when he'd heard the dying man's croaked words. He flashed Kitagawa a steely glance. "On the contrary," he said evenly. "This was over two months ago when you decided to touch what is mine."

And with that, Asami left the room. Suoh followed in his wake, leaving Kirishima to watch the spasmodic body as life slowly began to drain out of it like water through a sieve. It would take at least an hour before Kitagawa died, Kirishima thought detachedly. Already, his mind was working through the logistics of cleaning the space up and disposing of the remains.

He knew his employer was not one to usually go through this kind of trouble to accomplish what a simple bullet could easily do. Asami Ryuichi did not torture for torture's sake. No, this ... this was something different, and Kirishima understood that. Because when he finally dumped the corpse, he would be doing more than cleaning up after his boss. He would be sending a clear message out to each and every one of their enemies: Mess with Asami or his, and these were the consequences.

End Chapter 1


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

Hello!

Thanks for continuing to follow along with this story. I also wanted to say thank you for the comments left here as well. I don't know if I speak for other authors here when I say this, but I definitely do appreciate them. I dabble in fanfiction partly because I find it enjoyable, but also because I like the immediate feedback I get from readers. It's so tempting just to focus on original fiction that can be sent off to a publisher, so said immediate feedback from readers themselves make playing around in fanfiction a nice, fulfilling form of payment. So again, a heartfelt thank you! :)

Also, just reiterate the previous warning: there will continue to be a bit of time-jumping in this and upcoming chapters, so I apologize in advance if it is a bit confusing. But it'll start to come together in the later chapters! Promise!

Other than that, please enjoy!

Cheers,  
Gwinne  
(December 2012)

(***)

_Ricochet  
Chapter 2_

(***)

_Present ...  
_

He still had it! After five months of captivity - voluntary and otherwise - he could still lose a tail as neatly as the next secret spy. In fact, slipping his guards had felt almost like riding a bike - a dormant skill he never lost. It was so easy to just fall back into old habits. It was familiar, comforting, safe ... and such a far cry from the gaping hole in his memory, that intrusive abyss he tried to ignore.

Takaba had managed to elude Asami's lackeys after the photo shoot earlier that day, and surprisingly, he continued to remain free of their dogged shadows still. He had even managed to grab a dinner of noodles and gossip with Kou and Takato at their favorite dive, minus his bodyguards' ever-looming presence. His friends were still in the dark about where he'd disappeared to all those months ago. They believed he'd gotten into an accident on assignment somewhere, and Takaba was content to leave it that way. His life had gotten complicated enough as it was. He didn't need to drag his friends into it too.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension in his muscles, he looked around at the bustling Tokyo streets and grinned. Freedom … it tasted so damn sweet! And now, now that the city's many night revelers had finally come out to play, he just couldn't make himself part with it so soon. The blaring horns, the flashing lights, the hustle of the everyday … he had taken it all for granted so often. Breathing in another lungful of the blessedly polluted air, he readjusted the strap of his camera bag and quickened his pace. He cast a quick glance at his surroundings, got his bearings, and rounded the next corner toward one of his favorite camera shops. He knew it was closed by now. Still, he could easily window shop. Never mind that he didn't have any money to buy anything, but the very thought of being cooped up in Asami's penthouse held no appeal to him whatsoever.

It was like trading in one prison for another. Takaba didn't know where that thought came from, and he quickly brushed it away. He didn't want to dwell on whatever had happened to him, and he made a conscious effort to do so when that dark, depressing void threatened the edges of his memories.

Instead, he turned his focus to the completely drool-worthy display of DSLR cameras that greeted him when he stopped in front of his destination shop. His eyes darted like those of an over-excited child's from the newest models to the different lenses. He knew he wouldn't be able to afford any of these any time soon, but he figured that a man ought to have goals - the deep pockets of crime lord lovers aside.

The sense of uneasiness crept up on him from nowhere. An uncomfortable fluttering settled in his stomach and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He'd been in enough rough situations to know when to trust his instincts, and this was one of them. He knew he was being watched without turning around.

He gripped the cross-body strap of his bag, muscles ready to make a run for it if he needed. But he waited patiently for a group of students to walk past him, and quickly pivoted around to move along with the small crowd. He stayed with the group for a block, and when the opportunity came to slip around a corner, he took it, hoping he had lost whoever had been following him.

He moved swiftly down a quiet side street, his heart thudding in his ears even as he forced his stride to be measured and casual. He paused briefly at the next crosswalk, and let out a silent breath of relief when he didn't hear or see anyone behind him.

He'd lost the stalker.

Posture relaxing, he turned and started to cross the street … and swore vehemently when a sleek black town car pulled up right in front of him.

"Fucking idiot!" he yelled as he banged on the roof of the vehicle. "You almost killed me, asshole!"

The limo-tinted driver's side window slid down with a mechanical _whir_, revealing a suited man who gave Takaba a pointed look.

"Takaba Akihito?"

The photographer straightened. The driver seemed vaguely familiar. "Yes?" he said slowly.

"Please get in. The boss sent me to pick you up."

"The boss?" Takaba threw the man a skeptical look.

"Asami."

He recognized the driver now. He'd seen the man in passing when he'd spied in on one of Asami's many 'business' dealings. He was one of Asami's henchmen.

"Why? I've got things to do. I'll head back when I'm ready." He asserted his stubborn stance reflexively, as if the driver was a surrogate for Asami himself.

"Don't make this difficult. I've been sent to retrieve you and I'm just following orders."

Takaba crossed his arms, daring the man to challenge him. "Well, I don't. Follow orders, I mean." And then, something occurred to him. "Where's Suoh? Or Kirishima? Why did he send you?"

Dark eyes bore into him with no-nonsense intensity. "There was an incident tonight. They're busy so I was sent."

"Incident? What kind of incident? Did their 'meeting' start two minutes late and Kirishima declare it a national emergency?"

Not a single muscle twitched on the driver's face at Takaba's attempt at levity. "No. But Asami was shot. I suggest you do what I say so we can get back to the penthouse right now. You're too exposed out here."

Almost instantly, Takaba's attitude changed. Without another word, he hopped into the passenger's seat and pulled out his phone.

Shot? Asami? No one in their right mind - with the exception of slightly misguided Triad leaders with father and brother issues - shot at Asami.

Panic started to rise in his chest, but he managed to rein it in as he dialed Asami's number.

No answer.

He hung up and tried again with the same result. Next, he gave Kirishima's mobile a call, and got directed straight to voicemail. Frustrated, he turned to the driver. "How bad?"

The man didn't answer immediately as he negotiated a turn. "I don't know," he finally replied.

Takaba waited for more but all of Asami's henchmen obviously subscribed to the same 'less talk equals more intimidating' school of thought. "What happened?" he prodded.

The man remained silent for a moment, likely debating what - or if - he should reveal. Then, after catching a glance of Takaba's threatening glare, he spoke. "It was a double-cross. The other parties got tipped off with something and the boss ended up in the middle of an ambush."

Takaba bit his lower lip, his mind trying to recall the details he'd gleaned from his eavesdropping sessions on Asami's dealings. He knew there was a meeting tonight to delineate the boundaries of territory between the criminal powers. He'd managed to overhear that much. Although Asami owned most of the city, that didn't stop over-ambitious gangs from trying to test out how far their leashes extended. And based on the one-sided conversations he'd caught from Kirishima, the meeting tonight was supposed to have put Asami's biggest opponents in their place. What had happened?

The rest of the trip was spent in silence as Takaba mulled over his thoughts. They pulled into the parking garage in record time, even though it had felt like an eternity to the photographer. Once they stopped, he was out before the driver had a chance to speak. The elevator ride up was agonizingly slow, but he managed to keep his anxiousness at bay by focusing on what he would say to Asami for ruining his evening like this. All the scenarios that ran through his head involved his domineering lover glaring at him stoically, or impassively, or even indulgently as he gave the man a piece of his mind. He refused to entertain any thought of Asami being seriously injured ... or worse.

When the elevator finally arrived on the top floor, he dashed toward the penthouse and unlocked the door with fumbling fingers. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find on the other side - the pandemonium he'd seen in medical dramas perhaps - but the calm scene that greeted him wasn't it. He stopped short. Kirishima had tucked himself in a corner, mutedly talking on his phone. Asami was standing in the living room, casually pulling on his shirt. And a stranger was bent over the coffee table, efficiently putting away gauze in his bag. A doctor, Takaba guessed as his eyes shifted over to glimpse briefly at the pristinely wrapped bandages around Asami's torso before it was covered up. If it wasn't for said doctor and the bloodied compresses on the floor, he would've thought this was just any other day.

"I'm home," he said belatedly, a little clueless now as to what he should say. So much for his pre-planned scenarios.

"Welcome back," Asami responded in his usual serious tone. He gave the physician a quick nod, effectively dismissing the man. Then, he turned to Takaba. "No trouble getting back?"

Still slightly stunned, the photographer shook his head. "N-no." Regaining some sense of himself, he added, "Though, you did interrupt my plans for the evening."

A familiar warning flashed through Asami's eyes, forcing Takaba to keep his insolence in check.

"What happened?" he decided to ask, his voice somber.

Asami moved toward him. "Later," he replied in a low tone and gave the younger man's shoulder a squeeze.

Ever since his return three months ago, Takaba had noticed that his usually emotionless lover had taken to touching him more. It wasn't obvious - a slight graze here, a random squeeze there - and he wasn't sure if even Asami realized it, but Takaba had picked up on it during his recovery but had refrained from commenting on it. In fact, he rather liked it.

Taking the cue from Asami, Takaba nodded and started toward the bedroom, deciding to leave his lover to handle his business with Kirishima. As he walked away, his gaze drifted over the doctor and the bloodied bandages littering the floor.

(***)

_Seventeen weeks ago ...  
_

The room came back into focus by varying degrees.

His head, like his vision, was fuzzy. Takaba blinked. And panic seized him.

Blood ... oh, God, there was so much blood!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! What did he do? What was he supposed to do?

He pushed himself off the floor. Or tried to. His palm slipped and his right side fell back down onto the ground. He felt the dampness of the blood pool that had caused the slip soak into the fibers of his shirt.

He bit his lip to suppress a cry of dismay, only to have a pathetic whimper escape.

Fuck! He tried to rise again, and succeeded this time on unsteady legs. His eyes darted around the room. He felt them glazing over as hysteria threatened to claw through every cell within him.

Why? Why were there so many bodies? What was he doing here among them?

He backed up a few steps, and almost tripped over an outstretched arm. He looked down and met the glassy, vacant stare of one of the corpses. He waved his hands behind him, desperately searching for the wall. He couldn't stand without support right now.

A soft chuckle sounded from the other side of the room. Takaba's head whipped up and he looked, confused, at the man leaning oh-so-casually against the door frame. He knew this man.

Kitagawa.

"Takaba, Takaba, Takaba." Kitagawa shook his head in disapproval, condescension lacing his words. "This would've been so much easier if you'd cooperated with us. All these men, they're dead because of you."

Takaba opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't string any coherent words together. He tried a few times, looking like a gaping fish. He gazed fixedly at the other man. Finally, he managed, "W-who are ... were they?"

Again, Kitagawa chuckled at his ignorance. He pushed himself off the door frame and cast a disdainful glance around the room. "People who've displeased me, or opposed me. Why do you think you're in here, Akihito?"

Takaba clenched his jaw, anger and disgust warring for dominance on his face. "Let me out of here," he ground out through his teeth.

A dark eyebrow rose in mock surprise. "You know I can't do that, my dear Akihito. You haven't been behaving, and I can't let that go unpunished. Asami may over-indulge your insolence, but I won't."

It took a moment before Takaba finally registered what the man was talking about. And the intent hit home when he saw Kitagawa step back and start to close the door.

"Y-you can't!" he shouted, pushing himself off the wall. "You fucking bastard! You can't lock me in here with all these bodies!" He started to shake, fear and panic wreaking havoc on his coordination. He stumbled frantically toward the exit, clumsily tripping over the limbs and torsos of the dead men as he did so. The door never seemed so far away.

Kitagawa paused. "Watch me." A gleam that bordered on maniacal entered the man's eyes. "Think of this as a character-building experience. You'll need this under your belt if you go back to Asami after this."

And with that, the door closed. The finality of the lock clicking had never sounded so damning.

Takaba stared at the thing, shocked. Then, he scrambled over, heedless of the bodies and blood he tripped and slipped on. He knew it was useless, knew that the door wouldn't be opened, but deep down, he harbored hope … hope that perhaps Kitagawa had a glimmer of mercy, or that one of his men would take pity on him, or even that Asami might find him. And so, he banged on the door. He banged and banged and banged until his knuckles were raw and until his voice went hoarse. And even then, in view of the unseeing eyes of the dead, he continued to bang.

(***)

_Present ...  
_

Takaba stepped out of the bathroom smelling of soap and shampoo, and feeling completely refreshed. He toweled his hair dry as he took a peek into the bedroom, and not finding Asami there, he padded into the living room.

He had behaved himself. After seeing Asami alive and well, he'd made himself scarce and let the man go about his business with Kirishima. Now that they were alone, however, he had every intention of grilling his lover about the events earlier that evening. But all his well-laid plans evaporated like the steam of his recent bath when he saw Asami.

The man sat shifting through a pile of papers on the coffee table, a recently poured drink placed just a short reach away. His attention was entirely focused on the papers, and errant strands of hair fell carelessly across his forehead, simply begging for Takaba to brush them back. The photographer's fingers twitched at the urge. He took in the dark magnetism of his lover, all coiled grace and sexual charm. He caught a flash of the white bandages between the gaps of Asami's partly buttoned shirt, and he was reminded of how close the man had come to death today.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined what his life would be like without Asami, without the constant threat of violence, without having to look over his shoulder at every shadow, ... without the unwanted nights of intense passion. And the thought, for some odd reason, scared the shit out of him.

Dropping his towel, he strode purposefully across the floor and forced himself between Asami and his papers. Without a sound, he straddled the older man's knees and bent down to claim a searing kiss.

It only took a millisecond for Asami to realize Takaba's intentions. He allowed the photographer to initiate and dictate the event, but after a brief moment, he took over, thrusting his tongue aggressively into his partner's mouth and stroking the interior with an expertise that caused Takaba's whole being to spasm.

The younger man laced his fingers through Asami's hair, pulling him closer and never wanting to let go. He savored the feel of the smooth strands in his hands and the intoxicating taste of scotch and Asami in his mouth. An unconscious moan sounded from his throat as a wave of delicious lightheadedness washed over him.

Asami let out a predatory growl, and before Takaba knew it, his whole world spun and he found himself laying on the couch looking up at his lover. An unreadable gleam reflected off the older man's eyes, and Takaba's arousal worsened at the intent they promised. He caught Asami's gaze and held it. There were no words between them. They didn't need words. Not now. Not when their breaths came heavy and their bodies pulsed with a need that only the other could fulfill.

Asami bent down and reclaimed his mouth, plundering and ravaging with an aggression that walked a fine line between pleasure and pain. Takaba wrapped his arms around Asami's neck, trying to soak in as much as he could. Eventually, he had to tilt his head back to get air, leaving Asami to trail his scalding lips along the exposed column of his throat.

God, the man was not human, Takaba thought. Asami didn't even pause to breathe. He worked tirelessly down to his neck, across his chest, and nipped teasingly at the hardened nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Takaba writhed as shivers seized his body. Skilled fingers had worked down the elastic band of his boxers, and now expertly stroked him from hilt to tip. His breathing hitched and his spine arched off the sofa. The sadistic bastard did this so well, knew his body so thoroughly that Takaba bet his lover could bring him to climax without even breaking a sweat.

And he did. The cadence of Asami's stroking quickened into a blinding crescendo, and pushed Takaba beyond his breaking point. His vision blanked, and for one fleeting second, he existed in a universe of unending bliss where all pain, all worries, and all despair were as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke. But all that ended so quickly. Relief flooded his body as the tension slowly ebbed away, and he was suddenly thrust back into reality, feeling completely drained.

Reaching down, he pulled Asami up and gave him a quick kiss. "I'm all sticky now," he accused in a low tone. "And I just took a bath, you bastard."

Asami's expression remained impassive, but that was counteracted by his slightly swollen lips and the wicked light in his eyes. "I haven't. And it's my turn."

Takaba caught the double meaning immediately, and he inwardly relished the invitation. Outwardly, however, he played innocent. "Well, go then. I left some hot water for you."

Asami threw him a dangerous glare, and before Takaba could stop it, he was pulled off the couch and dragged ruthlessly into the bathroom.

(***)

Takaba awoke with a start. He didn't know what had jolted him from his sleep, but his heart was racing and his breathing was rapid. The images of the nightmare he'd just had danced on the edges of his consciousness, fading away like the distant memories of another life. For the last three months, it had been like this, and still, he could not figure out what his dreams were about.

He looked over at Asami's sleeping form. After a bout - or rather, three bouts - of furious sex, they'd fallen exhausted into bed. In his naïveté, Takaba had somehow thought the tiredness would keep the nightmares - whatever they were - away. He'd been wrong.

Shifting closer to Asami, he took comfort from his lover's presence and warmth. He hadn't told Asami about his dreams. He didn't want to. He was a grown man, and grown men did not let something as childish as a bad nightmare affect them. And so, he tried to fall back to sleep, his eyes lingering on his recently healed wrist and his ears echoing with the distant cries of pain from someplace best forgotten.

(***)

_Twelve weeks ago ...  
_

Takaba struggled to maintain his balance as the next punch sent him reeling. His teeth cut the inside of his cheek and he spent a few seconds spitting out a mixture of blood and saliva that tainted his mouth. He glared at his assailant through hooded eyes.

"Is that the best you can do, Kitagawa?"

A self-deprecating smirk was his immediate response. "Just getting started, Takaba."

Even seeing the next hit coming, it still stung like a bitch. Kitagawa's knuckles connected soundly with his right eye, whiting out his surroundings and temporarily blinding him. Sharp pokers of pain peppered his skull and he knew without a doubt that the last punch had done considerable damage.

Takaba smiled lopsidedly, his expression taunting. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Kitagawa's next upper cut and bone-crushing roundhouse kick sent him to the ground. "Stupid question."

"Asami'll be here soon," he spat out through the discomfort and hugged his abused ribs. "Do your worst."

"My pleasure," the standing man growled. A series of kicks followed, sending Takaba into a world of indescribable, debilitating agony. His mind wandered away, scurrying from the reality of the moment in one last ditch effort for self-preservation. He saw himself from afar, a small pathetic thing rolling around as Kitagawa doled out attack after unrelenting attack. And from a distance, through the flurry of strikes, he watched Kitagawa stamp down hard on his wrist. The crack that resulted was deafening, but it was nothing compared to the spine-tingling scream that followed. It filled every crevice in the room, and shattered all belief that such a cry couldn't be caused by man, and man alone.

End Chapter 2


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

Hello, again!

I hadn't planned on writing this chapter so soon, but for some reason, Takaba's character wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is. The chapter's a bit slower (and shorter), but for those who have picked up on the clues in the previous chapters, you may have an idea after this one where I plan to take this plot. ;)

Now that this chapter is done and posted, I'm hoping Takaba will leave me alone so I can work on my other stuff. Silly Takaba!

As always, thank you so much for the reviews and/or for reading!

Wishing you and yours a safe and happy holiday season,  
Gwinne  
(Dec. 2012)

(***)

_Ricochet  
Chapter 3_

(***)

_Present..._

Takaba took a sip of the hot coffee and scrunched up his face. God, this stuff was bitter. How in the world did Asami drink this sludge? He put the mug down on the coffee table and fought the urge to dump a load of sugar and cream into it. No, in all his benevolence, he'd dragged his butt out of bed this morning to make a fresh pot for Asami while the man got ready. He wouldn't ruin his one act of kindness to the injured man.

Plopping down on the sofa, he let out a restless sigh. While the previous night had been rather eventful, Takaba felt a certain antsiness settle over him. This pattern of give and take - or rather, more give than take on his part - he shared with Asami had taken on such a repetitive air that he felt rather frustrated with it. Sure, they had great sex - his sore ass this morning was a testament to that - but this unspoken tension, these repressed emotions that existed between them had been stretched taut with no relief in sight. It was as if they were dancing in circles on the edge of a cliff, turning around and around, so dangerously close to the precipice but never falling over. Even their attempted talk of rules and compromise a few weeks ago hadn't pushed them very far.

Resigned, Takaba let out another soft breath and sat up. His eyes skirted over the papers on the coffee table, papers that Asami had been perusing before he'd been so pleasantly interrupted.

Phone bills.

Curious, Takaba leaned forward and started shuffling through the sheets. His investigative instincts had been piqued. Why had Asami been searching through phone bills? He checked the account information, and didn't recognize the name or number. And after scanning through the list of placed and received calls, nothing familiar jumped out at him either. Nothing ... except one.

"Snooping again?"

Takaba straightened and sat back, startled. Like the metaphorical child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he looked guiltily up at Asami, trying to fight the embarrassment that crept up onto his face. "No," he managed.

Asami's gaze narrowed skeptically, but he left well enough alone and grabbed the mug of coffee instead. The photographer watched his companion drink with a sense of triumph. The older man had learned to pick his battles wisely, and this wasn't one of them. Takaba was fairly pleased with how he was managing to get away with certain things now.

Still, his lover did strike an intimidating figure, all done up in his three piece suit - sans jacket at the moment - and tie. With his hair slicked back and eyes ever sharp, Takaba would've taken him for any high powered executive. That was, until his attention fell to the holster secured around Asami's shoulders. He was instantly reminded of what the man did, and who he truly was.

Somewhat sobered, Takaba gestured toward the pile of papers on the table. "These have something to do with last night?"

Asami didn't answer. Instead, he took a slow swallow of the hot drink.

"You promised last night you would explain what happened. I'm still waiting."

The ceramic mug was placed back on the table with a _clack_, and the older man's golden eyes pierced him with blatant warning. "Knowing you, you've likely gleaned what you needed to know, if not from the driver, then at least from your snooping. I'd just be wasting my breath."

Takaba's mouth set itself into a firm line. "Asami, if you're ... I mean, if I'm in danger, I have a right to know." He'd almost slipped up there. What right did he have to this man? They were simply lovers, nothing more, weren't they? Or if not, they hadn't outright spoken of it. Yet, a tiny part of him - a part that he tried to bury, and a part that he felt had surfaced recently in his fuzzy past - protested the fact, and yearned to assert possession of his companion.

Asami's features softened ever so slightly. "You're not in any danger. I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

The moment those words were spoken, something changed in the air. The shadow of Takaba's two missing months mingled heavily with the specter of emotions that hid within Asami's promise. And for a brief, fleeting second, Takaba thought he saw something raw and real flicker in his lover's steady gaze, but it disappeared so quickly that he was certain he'd imagined it. Suddenly uncomfortable, Takaba glanced away, his eyes falling back onto the sheets scattered on the table.

(***)

_Twenty weeks ago ..._

"A-Asami...?" Takaba's voice, like his hands, shook uncontrollably. "Asami, please ... please pick up." The cell phone slipped in his fingers, the sweaty palms causing him to constantly re-grip the thing. "I-I don't know w-where I am. There were men ..."

A rush of nearby footsteps shut him up. He scooted deeper into the corner, praying wildly that the crates would be enough to hide his presence.

"A-Asami," he continued with the voicemail message. "I-I need help. I tried to -"

An ominous click stopped him short. Slowly, he looked up and met the barrel of a 9mm pointed right at his head. The phone was pulled out of his hands, and his heart clenched at losing the one last lifeline he had to escape. Without warning, he was roughly pulled up and out of his hiding place. The sound of wooden crates crashing and cracking on the floor accompanied his weak struggles, but it was futile. The men who held him were strong, and unlike him, hadn't been starved for two whole days.

"Shit, you're a slippery one."

Wincing as his arms were wrenched and pinned behind his back, Takaba watched the cold assessing eyes of the man who stood before him: Kitagawa, the man had introduced himself as just a couple of days ago when he'd woken up in his private little prison. "Then let me go and I won't bother you anymore," the photographer spat.

A humorless smile appeared on his captor's face. "You know I can't do that." Kitagawa stepped closer and firmly grasped Takaba's jaw in his hands. "I was showing a bit of kindness by sending in some food. If I knew you would knock my man out and steal his phone, I wouldn't have even bothered. You can bet I won't make the same mistake again."

The man pushed Takaba's head away abruptly, and the photographer felt his neck strain at the cruel motion. He gritted his teeth against the pain. "Go fuck yourself," he hissed, wishing every ill he could think of upon the bastard.

Kitagawa let out a muted chuckle and gestured for his men to take him away.

And just like that, they obeyed. Takaba was dragged unceremoniously out of the store room, through winding corridors and passages, and back to the little room that had served as his cell. However, they didn't stop at his recent makeshift prison. They continued past it to a door several feet away.

When Takaba saw the cot and the multitude of leather straps attached to it, his fight was renewed. Arms and legs flailing, he tried to escape his guards' hold, desperation apparent in every motion. His resistance wasn't overly effective, but it annoyed the men holding him enough to warrant a silencing punch. Dazed by the hit, Takaba was a compliant deadweight as they threw him onto the cot, and on Kitagawa's command, strapped him in.

"W-What are you doing to me?" he asked groggily as he slowly regained his senses.

Kitagawa loomed over him like some omniscient being. "Something I've been planning for a very, very long time."

"Why?"

An ugly smirk appeared on the man's face, and some indecipherable light shone from his dark eyes. "Why?" he repeated, loathing and disgust lacing his tone. "Why, you ask. Because ambition's a bitch. Especially in the world your lover and I live in. And you, Takaba Akihito, will be my ticket to immortalizing my name forever as the one who took down the great Asami Ryuichi."

Takaba stared up at his captor, a seed of pity flowering someplace inside him. Living in the shadows of great men was a fact of life, but he couldn't even begin to imagine how much more difficult it must be to live with them in this cutthroat world ... in Asami's world. And to risk it all to get ahead ...

He tempered down his unconscious need to sympathize with Kitagawa. "You've got it wrong," he decided to say. "Asami won't come for me. He's smarter than that."

_/* 'But you knew I would come for you, right?' */_

Even as Asami's long ago words echoed in his head, he couldn't stop the doubt from setting in. He was simply a possession to Asami. Would the man risk his whole empire for some headstrong photographer?

"That's why you'll go to him," Kitagawa responded enigmatically.

"What -?" Takaba tried to rise but the leather restraints held fast. He watched as the other man moved away and waved forward someone else. It was only then that Takaba noticed another person in the room other than the guards. This one was an older man, a middle-aged foreigner with salt-and-pepper hair and a scholarly air about him.

"Kitagawa, who -" Takaba paused when he saw the hypodermic needle in the mysterious man's hands. He pulled at his restraints in earnest. He wasn't stupid. He knew what was coming next. He'd been threatened with drug addictions before, but this ... this was really happening! "Let me go!" he shouted and yanked and bucked.

But the foreigner simply moved forward with eagerness in his step. A telltale pinch accompanied the needle as it punctured his skin, and almost instantly, Takaba felt his head spin. His body went lax and the image of Kitagawa's smug expression began to blur. Before long, his consciousness faded away.

(***)

_Present ..._

"Takaba?"

Asami strode over to the younger man. One second, Takaba was being his usual aggravating self, and the next, he was as silent and as still as a statue. The brat just gazed unblinkingly at the table, as if recalling a distant memory. Concern tightened his chest. He hadn't figured out all the details of the photographer's captivity, but he knew enough. And from what he'd deduced, a certain part of him hoped that Takaba never remembered, never recalled any of the torture inflicted upon him.

"Takaba?" He gave his younger lover a small shake.

Takaba blinked and tilted his head up to look at him. "What?"

Asami scrutinized the other man carefully, searching for an indication of where the photographer's mind may have wandered off to. "You alright?"

A careless shrug was his reply. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

Asami carefully schooled his voice to be critical and impartial. "You were thinking about something. What was it?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking about heading over to the magazine's editorial office this afternoon and trying to pick up some freelance work."

He had been around Takaba long enough to know when the man lied - not that the photographer was a good liar to begin with. And he knew that Takaba's response was nowhere near the truth. He remained silent though, his expression hardening to show his opinion on the matter.

"Don't even say it," Takaba continued. "I'm going, even if you forbid it."

He'd done this before, this back-and-forth with his obstinate lover. He had thought that going through the same motions and saying the same lines would've become tedious by now. Yet, it hadn't. This habitual clashing of wills had somehow become a ritual to him, something as comforting and familiar as that hot cup of coffee in the morning.

"Then take the guards," he ordered.

Takaba stood and glared at him. "I don't like having them follow me everywhere."

"You won't even know they're there."

After a moment of silent confrontation, Takaba sighed with resignation. "Fine, but the moment I catch sight of them, I'm ditching them."

Before he even had a chance to rebuttal, Asami watched his younger lover stomp away, muttering under his breath something about how unreasonable criminals were. It was only when he heard the click of the bedroom door that he allowed himself to relax, insofar as someone of his temperament could relax. He sat down on the sofa, and deftly gathered up the papers.

He'd had Kirishima pull all the phone bills of Suzuki Ichiro, the upstart whose band of merry men had caught him off guard the previous night. Someone had given the bastard the idea to take him on and it was that someone he intended to ferret out. He glanced down at the phone bills in his hand. These had solved half of the mystery. Now, the other half was to discover the mole in his organization who had used Club Sion's phone to make the call to Suzuki.

(***)

The underground car park smelled of rubber tires and exhaust fumes. Takaba wondered how Suoh could spend so much of his time down here when he was awaiting orders from Asami. There was no accounting for some people's preferences. But he'd come down here with a purpose, and pondering the workings of Suoh's mind wasn't it.

"Suoh?" he called out when he saw one of Asami's cars. The driver's side door was opened, so he assumed the bodyguard was here somewhere. "Suoh?"

The big man stuck his head out of the open door, giving him the only expression he was capable of giving - intimidating.

As Takaba neared, he smelled the distinct scent of chemical cleaner and pine air freshener. Who would've thought this immovable mountain of a man liked to clean cars? "Hey, Suoh, I need to ask you a couple of things."

Without a word, the blond man stepped out of the car and wiped his hands with a towel he had resting on the car roof. "What?"

Now that he was here, Takaba became somewhat uncomfortable with his request. First things first though, he started with the easier question. "Asami wanted guards on me when I head out this afternoon. Got anyone?"

Suoh nodded. "I should. I'll go check."

"No, wait." Takaba's command stopped Suoh from leaving. "I-I also have a favor to ask you."

The bodyguard stared at him, patiently waiting.

He took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you could teach me to defend myself." There, he'd said it, and it seemed to have surprised Suoh, whose right eyebrow had risen up with uncharacteristic interest.

"You don't have to show me a lot," he added quickly. "Maybe just a few moves or something." For some reason, he was self-conscious asking this favor, and so, he looked away from the other man, embarrassed.

After a moment's pause, Suoh replied, his deep baritone all business and gave no indication of noticing the photographer's discomfort. "I'm free tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks, Suoh!" Takaba gave the guard an excited pat on his solid biceps, but froze when the man looked stonily down at his hand. He smiled timidly. "Sorry ... now, about those guards..."

"I'll get that set up."

And with that, the blond bodyguard turned, pulled his suit jacket out of the car, closed the door, and walked away. Takaba watched the man go, satisfied that he'd accomplished what he'd come to do. On some level, asking Suoh for the favor meant that he'd accepted this life he'd been thrown in - Asami's life - and against his better judgement, he wasn't completely against the idea.

(***)

_Moscow, Russia_

"Sir, these just came for you from Kiev."

Mikhail Arbatov set down his drink and sat up in his lounge chair. The sunroom of his penthouse just blocks away from the Red Square was the perfect place to unwind, and he did not take kindly to his relaxation time being interrupted.

Sliding his sunglasses up onto his head, he took the manila envelope offered to him. "Kiev? What does our old friend Vitali want now?"

His assistant, Alexei, shrugged, and took a step back. "I don't know, sir."

Mikhail rolled his eyes and shook his head. Alexei, ever the model henchman. Still, good help was hard to find these days, so he guessed he shouldn't complain. He turned his attention to the delivery and concentrated on pulling the file folder out of the envelope. Expecting some random reports on the weapon shipments he'd been sending into the Ukraine, he only paid half a mind to the papers as he flipped through them.

But then, he realized what he was reading and became completely engrossed. After several minutes of rifling through the files, he spoke, his eyes not leaving the papers. "Alexei, pack our bags. We're making a courtesy call to Japan."

End Chapter 3


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:**

Hello!

I thought I'd take a break from working on some other projects, and do another chapter of this. Thank you so much for the reviews, and for reading. I'm not going to lie: seeing the comments do draw me back to writing this story. :)

Skatjas: Yes, you're right on the ball. Takaba was kidnapped twenty weeks ago (5 months ago), and rescued twelve weeks ago (3 months ago), so he was in captivity for 2 months.  
JustAnotherFan: Thanks so much for the imagery of Takaba doing the can-can. I had a picture of him in fishnets and garters with a 'WTF?' look on his face after I read that. ;)

This is a little longer chapter, and will be the last one for a while since I'm booked up on some other stuff until the end of February. It's jam-packed with events and back story, and contains the turning point of the plot. Not only that, but it touches on my favourite sub-genre - historical fiction! I'm not so good at modern history, but I had fun writing this chapter, so I hope you have just as much fun reading it.

Historical Note: The 'Project MKUltra' mentioned in this chapter is historical fact, first sanctioned by the CIA back in 1953, but was decommissioned about twenty years later in the 1970s. Everything else talked about by Mikhail was just made up by me. :)

Other than that, please enjoy, and happy reading!

Cheers,  
Gwinne  
(Jan. 2013)

(***)

_Ricochet  
Chapter 4_

(***)

_Present..._

The moment Takaba stepped out of the movie theatre, he stopped short. Asami's black town car awaited him across the street, its very presence a personification of its owner - sleek and infinitely sophisticated. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but a part of him wanted to scream up to the heavens in frustration over how dominating his lover was in his life. Wasn't it enough that he'd allowed those two goons to tail him to the editorial offices that afternoon? Could he not catch a movie and hang out with his friends in peace?

"Well, it looks like you're spoken for for the rest of the night," Kou said good-naturedly as he draped an arm across Takaba's shoulders. The man deserved more than people gave him credit for, what with noticing the town car amidst the bustle of the street and all that.

Takaba scowled. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, deciding to play dumb. Asami would not run his life. He had established that long ago.

Kou chuckled. "I think you do, Aki. Don't change your plans on our account."

"Yeah, seeing you twice in as many days was more than we thought we'd get when we called you earlier," Takato chimed in.

Takaba glared at his two companions, feeling slightly betrayed. But Kou gave him a departing push toward the car, and the pair of them promptly said their goodbyes. Left with nothing else to do, Takaba crossed the street at the next opportunity, cursing the good intentions of traitorous friends under his breath. As he neared Asami's car, a strange sense of déjà vu came over him, and for a brief moment, he recalled the urgency and gut-wrenching panic of the previous night when he'd also been intercepted. Surely, there hadn't been another incident. Asami was too untouchable, too ... too omnipotent for something like that to happen again. Nonetheless, a seed of worry took root in the pit of his stomach.

When he finally reached the car, the tinted rear window rolled down and revealed the strong, angled face of his lover. The tension he didn't know his body was holding eased, and he fought to keep his prior thoughts and the ensuing relief from showing on his face.

"Seriously," he said incredulously. "You couldn't leave me alone for just one night? Don't you have some examples to set or fingers to cut off or something? You know, criminal kingpin stuff?"

Asami ignored his flippant tone, and just gazed at him stonily with those sharp, intelligent eyes. "Get in."

Takaba almost snorted in disbelief. If he had a yen for each time Asami invited him into the car, he'd be a very rich man by now. But deep down, a small voice urged him to go, reminding him that as much as he openly denied it, he harbored that masochistic addiction for Asami's taste, and touch, and need. Damn, how he hated that voice.

Making an outward show of his reluctance, he grumbled his displeasure as he hopped in. He had barely settled onto the smooth leather when the car pulled away from the curb. He glanced up at the driver's seat, and saw Kirishima behind the wheel. The man sure did not believe in wasting time.

"Geez, what's the emergency today?" Now that he was in the car, he half expected Asami to be all over him. After all, wasn't that how it usually worked? But he wasn't, and so the annoyance in Takaba's question was partly forced. Uncertainty had claimed the other part.

Asami didn't respond at first, his attention focused on a message he'd received on his phone. Then, after several seconds, he casually slid the thing into his jacket's inner pocket, his expression betraying nothing. "I need you to stay in for the next little while."

On instinct, Takaba opened his mouth to protest. He hated ultimatums, and Asami, more than anyone, knew how strong his rebellious streak was. Yet, something stopped him. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, and it took a few seconds before he realized that something was ... off with his lover. His chest tightened. Without knowing it, their continued intimacy had somehow attuned Takaba to the microscopic nuances that Asami hid so well. And he noticed them now - the slight tension in his jaw, the small crease on his brow. Something was bothering his lover, and the fact that he'd been able to pick that up from the usually unreadable man scared the shit out of him.

"Why?" he managed to ask, for once not sounding like his usual headstrong self.

After a brief pause, Asami turned to look at him, and Takaba felt an overwhelming urge to lean into the man, to seek the warmth and security he provided.

"Because I have a situation to deal with, and I can't have you in the way."

Something was indeed wrong if Asami was being so candid with him. He knew it was risky asking for more information, but his investigative self couldn't resist. "What kind of situation?" When the other man didn't say anything, he added, "You know I can take care of myself."

"Can you?" Asami's tone was sharp, and Takaba couldn't help flinching slightly at the words. "Don't fool yourself, Takaba. Can you really take care of yourself?"

"You mean after last time?" There was a potent stillness between them after he said that. The phrase held with it a load of unspoken guilt and denied responsibility. Takaba continued. "I told you I'm fine. And they caught me unaware that time, that's all. I'm prepared now."

"But it doesn't change the fact that you were taken," Asami said with quiet intensity. He kept his gaze looked with Takaba's, and the photographer felt a chill of foreboding run down his spine. "You live in my world now, Takaba. And that means you play by my rules."

"Well, your rules suck." He couldn't stop the retort from escaping, but he knew it had to be said. Nothing highlighted the differences between them more, and yet, like the proverbial moth to the flame, he couldn't resist gravitating towards Asami's dark light.

"Then don't play."

Fuck the man a hundred ways to hell, Asami had called his bluff. The arrogant man knew. He knew that Takaba wouldn't leave - couldn't leave - anymore than Asami could leave him. They were each other's poison, and well they knew it. Put off by the stalemate, the photographer bit his lower lip to keep anymore regrettable words from coming out, and turned to stare out the window.

The city lights passed by him in a blur, the people out there going about their daily lives completely oblivious of the nefarious deeds that happened right beneath their noses. Takaba absently wondered when his own life had gotten so complicated. Whatever happened to his world of black and white? And when had everything taken on such obscure shades of gray?

"Sir."

Takaba looked up to the driver's seat, alerted by the odd pitch in Kirishima's voice.

"What is it?" Asami's voice rumbled beside him, calm and no-nonsense.

"We have a problem."

Kirishima was never ruffled, so when Takaba caught the slight panic in his words, he sat up. He saw the secretary's knuckles, white from the hard grip he had on the steering wheel. "What's going on?" he asked, proud that his voice didn't waver.

Kirishima's eyes met his through the rear view mirror. "Something's wrong with the brakes," the man said. "I felt them go the last time I slowed down. Chances are I won't be able to stop the next time."

Asami straightened, and Takaba saw a vein throb near his lover's temple. He himself felt his own heart jump into his throat.

"Get us out of the heavy traffic," Asami commanded. His tone, as well as his entire demeanor, was steel.

"Already doing so, sir."

The engine revved powerfully, and Takaba held tight to the handle above the door as they wove around an army of cars, and sped through a red light. He couldn't think, could barely breathe, as they rounded a corner near full speed, and counted his blessings when they didn't roll over. They barrelled through another red light, but didn't escape completely unscathed when another car clipped them in the tail.

Takaba felt his whole body jerk and his teeth clatter at the impact, but somehow, Kirishima managed to keep them on course; thank the powers that be for front-wheel drive cars. He took a quick look over at his lover, inexplicably wanting to hold and be held by the man at that very moment, but the deadly intent with which Asami stared at the road in front of them gave him pause.

Was this how he was going to die, how it would all end? It seemed so anti-climatic after all they'd been through. His eyes burned, and he blinked rapidly to stop the sensation from getting worse. He didn't want to die. Not yet. Not when he had so much more that he wanted to do, and so much more he wanted to say. He hadn't said goodbye to his friends. He hadn't let his mom know that he wouldn't be visiting this year. And he hadn't told Asami that he lov-

"Takaba."

Asami's terse call snapped him out of his trance. He opened his mouth, and took a slow, stuttering breath.

"Takaba," the other man repeated. "Listen to me. We're going to have to jump. Do you understand?"

He heard the words, knew what they meant, but it took a few seconds before the reality of them fully sank in. With eyes wide, he nodded. Kirishima had manoeuvred them onto a deserted street, and a passing sign told him the road was closed and under construction. Smart man, that Kirishima, Takaba thought rather hysterically. He knew there was a reason that Asami kept him around.

The telltale click of the automatic locks releasing sent his already pounding heart further into his throat. His mouth went dry, and his whole body felt clammy.

"Asami," he said. He sounded so small. "I ... I lo-"

The man leaned over and claimed his mouth. It wasn't desperate, it wasn't overpowering, and it wasn't aggressive. In this kiss, Takaba tasted a sweetness and a gentleness he had never experienced before from his lover. But it was over so very fast. "You can do this, Takaba," Asami whispered harshly. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

And with that, the man reached over him and opened the door. The gush of air whipped at him without any warning, and he tried hard not to look at the rapidly moving asphalt beneath him.

"Go!"

Asami's shout spurred him into action, and before he had a chance to think about it or doubt his decision, he flung himself out of the vehicle.

He crashed to the ground with a jarring pain. He gritted his teeth to the point of cracking as he felt his skin being scraped off and his bones being rattled. Reflexively, he tried to tuck himself into as small a ball as possible and move with the momentum of the roll. His entire world turned into a cycle of up and down that he thought would never end. But it did. And it was at that moment that he realized he wasn't dead.

He laid there, his breaths coming in labored spurts and his muscles refusing to move. In the distance, he heard the crunch of crumbling metal, and knew the car had hit something, likely a barricade or some equipment left by the road crew. But that didn't matter. He was alive. He may not feel whole, but he was assuredly alive.

"Takaba!"

A flurry of pounding footsteps neared, and before he knew it, he was pulled him up into a sitting position. The dark eyes of his lover appeared in front of him, and in a daze, he marvelled at how beautiful they were.

"Takaba, are you alright?"

His brain started working again. He winced as he nodded, hating the shots of fire that ran down his neck at the movement. "Yeah, I think so. You?"

From what he could see, Asami looked a little frayed around the edges, but he seemed uninjured. Did the man make a practice of jumping off moving vehicles? "I'm fine. Can you stand?"

With another pain-filled nod, he pushed himself up. He leaned on Asami's solid strength for a moment, but was quite surprised with himself when he managed to stand on his own two legs. When Asami was assured that he was standing upright under his own power, the older man moved away. Takaba wanted to shout at him to stay; he had come too close to dying to be without his lover's steady presence right now. Then, he saw Asami wave Kirishima over, and a flush of guilt washed through him for forgetting about the secretary.

Whereas Asami appeared slightly disheveled, Kirishima did not look like he had just escaped the confines of a runaway car. His suit was ripped in places, and the man's ever-present glasses had been lost, but otherwise, Kirishima looked as unperturbed as always.

"Call Suoh. Get another car out here, and make sure he has personally validated its safety this time," Takaba heard Asami order.

Yet, something tugged on the fringes of the photographer's memory, something that bothered him about the instructions that Asami had just given. Suddenly, it hit him. "No!" he cried.

Both Asami and Kirishima turned sharply to look at him. They waited for him to continue, surprised at his interference.

"Don't call Suoh." He swallowed, trying to wet his mouth again after the ordeal he'd just been through. He met Asami's inquiring gaze dead on. "I saw him earlier today, working on the car in the parkade. I thought he was just cleaning it, but if your brake line was cut ..."

He let his sentence trail off, the insinuation of his words needing no further explanation. Asami's mouth thinned into a line and his jaw set. Takaba watched his lover give Kirishima a pointed look, and as if they had conducted a whole conversation telepathically, the secretary pulled his phone out and promptly went to work.

Course of action in place, Asami moved back toward him. "Come on, Takaba. You're going home."

This time, Takaba did not protest.

(***)

The hour was nearing two in the morning when Asami finally made his way into the upper offices of Club Sion. He'd dropped Takaba off earlier at the penthouse, and although the lack of fight in the boy had bothered him, he was grateful that his young lover had listened to him for once. It was clear the mole in his organization was after him, and initially, he had planned on slowly smoking the culprit out while devising a suitable disposal method for him. But whoever it was had involved Takaba again, and his plans of stealth and secrecy had flown out the window. Takaba could've died in that car with him tonight, and that was not something he overlooked easily. And if what Takaba had said about Suoh was true, then the game had changed considerably. The idea of one of his most loyal employees betraying him was a blow he had not expected.

A slight twinge from the bullet graze the night before sent a jolt of pain through his side as he quickly walked to his office. He ground his teeth together, and suffered through it. He would get the details of Suoh's duties and schedules figure out, and once Kirishima was finished settling the details of the wrecked car, he could hand the rest of the plan he had in mind over to his assistant. Then, he could head home ... to Takaba.

He arrived at the entrance to his office, and paused. The door, for whatever reason, had not been fully closed. He always locked his door. His adrenalin kicked in again, and his focus narrowed to the dangers at hand. He ignored the buzzing that had started in his ears, and smoothly pulled his gun from its holster. The weight of the semi-automatic felt comforting in his hand.

Slowly, he eased the door open, finger on the trigger, and walked in to meet the infuriatingly smug face of Mikhail Arbatov.

"Good evening, Asami!" the blond man said in Russian. "Or should I say, good morning?" Eyes twinkling, Mikhail leaned back in Asami's chair, and took a liberal gulp of the liquor he'd helped himself to. Then, unfazed by the gun pointed directly at him, he raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Either you've had a hell of a night, or you really need to turn that gun on your tailor."

(***)

He couldn't stop shaking.

Takaba swiped his hand across the steamed mirror to see his battered reflection underneath. His skin burned from where the moisture in the air met the road rash on his body, but he welcomed the pain. In fact, he welcomed all the pain, from the scraped skin to the bruises to his abused head. They all meant that he was alive, and that in itself made it all worth suffering.

But the shaking was driving him crazy. He had thought a bath would help, but now that he was done, he didn't have enough control over his muscles to put on his own clothes.

_/ ... I think you're ready for this. /_

He closed his eyes, and leaned against the sink, his arms supporting his weight. His near death experience replayed over and over again in his head. And Asami ...that kiss ... his near confession ...

_/ It's time ... /_

He balled his hands into fists, willing his body to get back under control. He had been through this before. He'd survived the post-traumatic stress of near strangulation before. He would get over this.

He opened his eyes, and stared at himself. The eyes of a stranger stared back.

_/ ... Make me proud, Takaba. / _

(***)

_Seventeen weeks ago..._

Takaba glared at the gun in his hand, as if it would come to life and bite him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

Kitagawa's habitual smirk got bigger. "Because I think you're ready for this."

"For what?" God, how he wanted to wipe that superior look off the man's face. The arrogance, the ego, the disdain ... oh, how Takaba wanted to wipe it all away. But his body felt sluggish, heavy, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"You'll see," Kitagawa said. "It's time, I think, to witness what all my efforts have yielded."

Takaba's mouth set into a stubborn line. "I don't know what the fuck it is you're talking about, but you're deluded. You just gave me a gun, asshole. I could blow your head off right now."

Kitagawa chuckled. For a madman, it sure sounded rather normal. "Really? Do it then."

Takaba stood there, unmoving.

"Come on, Akihito. Here's your chance to escape. Take it."

Yet, Takaba remained standing stock still, not a single muscle obeying what his brain was fervently screaming for his body to do. What was wrong with him? What had the maniac done with him?

"Can't do it, can you?" When the younger man didn't respond, Kitagawa shook his head in mock exasperation. "If you had been more cooperative, we could've skipped this test. But I guess now, you'll just have to go in there and make me proud, Takaba."

Kitagawa gave him a rough shove through a doorway, and before he knew it, he stumbled into the dimly lit room. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the lack of light, but when they did, they made out the slumped postures of several men sitting against the wall.

"Who's this little fucker?" he heard one of them mutter.

"Kitagawa must've gotten another one."

"A bit young to be a big player, isn't he?"

"Hey, wait, he's got a gun."

The guttural voices of the occupants in the room assaulted Takaba from all sides. And yet, oddly enough, he strained to hear more of them, as if mentally tallying up how many of them there were, and marking where they sat.

Then, his arm moved up of its own accord, his weapon poised and his finger on the trigger.

_No, wait._

He located the voice closest to the door - an older, portly man with a receding hairline - and fired.

_No ... what was he doing?_

The body fell to the ground with a resounding thump. Instantly, everyone in the room was up and trying to escape, but belatedly, realized they were all still tied up. Takaba targeted the next man, and pulled the trigger.

_Stop! What was he doing? Please, stop!_

The recoil of the discharge sent a shock right up his arm and into his shoulder. But he paid it no mind. He turned to the next victim, and shot again. The repeated blast of gunfire filled the space around him, and no matter how much he tried to stop, he kept going. He kept shooting and shooting until his clip ran out of bullets, until the world as he knew it spun crazily out of his control, and until the shouts of dying men faded away into oblivion.

The room came back into focus by varying degrees.

His head, like his vision, was fuzzy. Takaba blinked. And panic seized him.

Blood … oh, God, there was so much blood ...

(***)

_Present ..._

Mikhail watched with an interested eye as Asami silently flipped through the papers in the file folder he'd handed over. He held his tongue, and took another sip of the Japanese yakuza's fine liquor as he waited.

"So what am I looking at?"

A corner of the blond man's lips lifted up into a lopsided smile. "What? The great Asami Ryuichi can't read Cyrillic?"

One of Asami's eyebrows rose up, not amused by his humor. The man had reclaimed his chair, forcing Mikhail onto one of the visitor's seats on the other side of the desk, and despite the fact that his suit looked like it had seen better days, Asami was still as imposing as ever.

"Fine," Mikhail sighed as he put down his glass on the desk. "Do you like stories? Because do I ever have one for you!"

The other man watched him menacingly, and Mikhail could easily see how this man had managed to climb to the top of Tokyo's criminal underworld.

"Almost fifty years ago, during the beginning of the Cold War, Soviet Intelligence intercepted several coded messages from within the country to CIA operatives in the United States. At first, they thought they had a double agent on their hands, but with a bit of digging, the KGB uncovered a Soviet scientist working in collaboration with the CIA on a top secret initiative. They had initially wanted to neutralize the scientist, but they eventually learned that he was a bigger asset alive than dead."

Asami continued to stare at him, his expression neutral, but Mikhail knew the man was listening, absorbing, and processing. "What was the initiative?" the yakuza asked.

"The Americans called it behavioral engineering, a field of research pioneered and developed by the CIA's Scientific Intelligence Division," Mikhail continued. "We know it better as mind control, or brainwashing. The CIA had plans to release captured KGB agents back to the USSR with subconsciously programmed directives to work for their enemy."

At this, Asami sat up and an undefined tension filled the air. Something was up, and going though the man's mind, but Mikhail couldn't tell what. He decided to go on with his story.

"One of the main programs, Project MKUltra, was officially sanctioned in 1953, but it proved ineffective, and was scaled back about ten years later. Still, it had managed to catch the attention of Dr. Evgeny Ulanov, a foremost Soviet neurobiologist who secretly volunteered his assistance to the CIA under the pretense of academic advancement. When the KGB found out, they held his son hostage, and forced him to head the new Soviet branch of 'Behavioral Engineering'. But like the Americans, the experiments weren't very successful."

"What kind of experiments?" That piercing gaze was locked on Mikhail, and had he been a lesser man, he might've been cowed.

Mikhail shrugged, and grabbed his glass for another swallow of Asami's scotch. The liquid burned a comforting trail down his throat and warmed his stomach. "Mind altering drug treatments like LSD and barbiturates, medically induced comas, sensory deprivation, physical and mental torture ... almost anything that traumatized the brain, they tried."

"And what happened to the research?"

"When the Soviet Union fell, and the Cold War ended, the KGB was officially disbanded."

"Officially?" Asami repeated, a hint of mockery in his voice.

Mikhail smiled, looking like the cat that'd just ate the cream. "Former KGB agents are people too! They needed jobs and I had job openings. The former Soviet Intelligence's assets reverted to the Russian government, but I like to cover my bases and keep my feelers out."

"You own part of the former KGB network, I assume?"

The question was more rhetorical, but Mikhail decided to answer anyway. "Of course. I'm the self-respected head of a criminal syndicate after all. And every syndicate head needs a spy network in their portfolio." He toyed with the glass in his hand for a moment before putting it back down. "Dr. Ulanov died in 1980, but his son had followed in his father's footsteps and continued on with the research. But my sources say that Dr. Ulanov's son, Victor, suddenly left the country approximately six months ago for Japan. Now, this Dr. Ulanov is not a well-travelled man, so something or someone must've pulled him out of Siberia. Some questioning on the part of one of my men in the Ukraine showed that Ulanov is not here for anything academic."

"No, I don't think he was." Asami shifted back in his chair, the rigidness of his movements telling Mikhail that the man was distracted with his own thoughts. Sadly, Asami was no ordinary man who could be easily read.

A man with more tact and finesse would've waited, would've extracted the information subtly and stealthily. He wasn't that man. "So, are you going to keep me here in suspense all night? I can see you know more than you're letting on. I've travelled all the way here out of professional courtesy to give you a heads up that there's a rogue scientist loose in your territory, and you're not going to tell me what he's here for?"

"Oh, I can tell you what he's here for," said a new, yet familiar, voice from behind him.

Mikhail watched Asami stiffen, and something undecipherable flashed through those enigmatic eyes. Slowly, cautiously, the Russian man turned around in his chair, and met the barrel of a Walther PPK pointed right at the pair of them.

Takaba stood calmly with the raised gun in the doorway, an uncharacteristically blank look on his face. "I'll tell you what he was here for, Mr. Arbatov," the boy repeated dispassionately. "He was here for me."

End Chapter 4


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:**

Hello,

Thank you for continuing to check out this story, even after such a long break. It's was such a nice change of pace to get back to writing it again.

A little segue: I've taken a look at this site's policies, and I didn't find anything about putting this next little bit in here, so I'll give it a go, and if need be, I'll remove it. Please feel free to skip the next little section and go right to the story because it has nothing to do with _Ricochet_. It's more a selfish bit of promotion.

_[Start Promo!]_

Apparently, I don't market myself enough (another way of saying I'm lazy), so I'm taking baby steps and doing a little bit here. I usually don't like to do this, but here goes.

Since it's still considered a new release (as it was released earlier this month), I thought now would be a good time to say this: please feel free to check out my story, _'The Other Side of Midnight_'. It's a story of vampires, and masquerades, and vendettas, and more... fun, fun! The story may be purchased on Torquere Books' site (Sorry, tried to include a hyperlink but the document manager for this site removes it). Toquere's site caters to all e-book formats, but I think for Kindles, you may have to jump through a hoop or two. If you do not want to do that, it can be downloaded from the Amazon's Kindle site as well, I believe.

Or, for a better bang for your buck, my story is part of an anthology with some other super awesome authors, so definitely check that out if you would like more stories with vampires and masquerades. The anthology, 'Masks Off Too!', can be purchased on the Toquere's site (and also on other third party vendor sites like amazon-dot-com, allromance-dot-com, etc.)

Anyways, back to your regularly scheduled program!

_[/End Promo!]_

So, on with the story! Please enjoy the next chapter of _Ricochet_. Happy reading!

Cheers,  
Gwinne  
(Mar. 2013)

(***)

_Ricochet  
Chapter 5_

(***)

_Twelve weeks ago..._

"Your knight in shining armor is here, Takaba." A gleam of self-satisfaction shone in Kitagawa's eyes as he neatly ended his phone call and slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket.

Takaba watched the man with wary resignation. The thought of what would happen next did not sit easy with him, but his wishes, no matter how fervent, were of no consequence now. "Asami?"

Kitagawa nodded as a corner of his lips twisted up into a sardonic smile that had become all too familiar. "Of course. Who else would move heaven and hell to save your sorry ass?"

Somewhere in the distance, Takaba heard a small voice cry out in relief, in triumph, in fear, but he knew it wasn't real. It was just a phantom, an airy whisper of an annoying self he had control over now, buried away until the time was right. "Then your plan? Does it start now?"

Kitagawa stepped closer, that gleam in his dark gaze taking on an intense, almost fevered, quality. His breath ghosted over Takaba, bringing with it the faint scent of liquor and tobacco. "My dear Takaba, it has already started. It started two months ago when we first met. You were such a rebellious little shit then." Rough fingers gripped the sides of Takaba's face, digging into his cheeks and immobilizing his head. But the photographer didn't move a muscle. He couldn't even if he wanted to. "Now look at you," Kitagawa continued with an appreciative growl. "A damn fine fucking masterpiece."

Kitagawa released him abruptly, leaving Takaba to move his jaw experimentally to ensure everything still worked. "You mean, Dr. Ulanov's masterpiece," the photographer said as he rubbed his abused skin. His eyes tracked the other man, never letting the yakuza out of his sight.

Kitagawa let out a harsh chuckle. "No, you're _my_ masterpiece. Dr. Ulanov would be huddled in some forgotten lab in Siberia poking electrodes into mice if it wasn't for me. You were put together on my instructions, piece by piece. _I_ planned this, and it will be _me_ who brings down the great Asami Ryuichi."

Takaba affected a sneer of his own, the impulse to do so uncontrollable after witnessing the other man's bravado. "Then do it, Kitagawa. Get this fucking thing going before I die of old age. Let's see what you're made of."

The first punch staggered Takaba, even though he had asked for it and anticipated it. But he regained his balance quickly and threw a defiant stare up at the other man, not willing to show any weakness. "Come on, Kitagawa, we have to make this look good, don't we? Can't have Asami thinking you went easy on me. Make it believable."

The lines of Kitagawa's face creased into an expression of muted pleasure as he delivered the next hit. Hard knuckles caught Takaba on the side of the face. A distinct ringing, which hadn't been there earlier, sounded in his ears. Still, he kept his attention on the other man, silently daring him, provoking him, to do better.

Takaba struggled to maintain his balance as the next punch sent him reeling. His teeth cut the inside of his cheek and he spent a few seconds spitting out a mixture of blood and saliva that tainted his mouth. He glared at his assailant through hooded eyes.

"Is that the best you can do, Kitagawa?"

A self-deprecating smirk was his immediate response. "Just getting started, Takaba ..."

(***)

Kirishima let out a tired breath as he walked up the stairs to Sion's upper offices. The events of the night had definitely been trying, even for him. Driving a tampered car, jumping out of it at breakneck speeds, crashing it, and cleaning up the mess afterwards - it was all exhausting work. And added to that, the fact that Suoh might have been behind it ... he was sorely disappointed.

He rotated his left shoulder and attempted to relieve some of the stiffness that had settled in. Efficient as he was, he was getting a little too old now to be jumping out of moving vehicles. Action sequences were better left to younger men than him. He would be content to handle the resulting paperwork any day.

He stepped onto the second floor landing, and was making his way to Asami's office when a strange flutter in the pit of his stomach warned him that something wasn't right. It was a sensation that had saved him many times in the past - the incident earlier that night included - and he had learned to heed it well. This moment was no exception.

With steady hands, he pulled his gun out of its holster, and quietly padded his way to his employer's office. He knew from experience that very few employees ever ventured this far into Asami's domain, so when he heard the even cadence of muffled voices as he neared, he realized his boss was not alone. However, it wasn't until he silently eased his way over to peer through the crack of the partially opened door that he saw who the guests were and what the situation was.

Instantly, he pressed himself against the adjacent wall, his grip tightening around the curved edges of his semi-automatic. A deadly calm settled over him as it often did when circumstances became unfavorable - a talent for which he was endlessly grateful - but his mind raced over the million different possible causes of the scene he'd just briefly witnessed.

Mikhail Arbatov was in there. Of that, he could be sure, although not overly surprised. What had caused a certain hesitation, however, was Takaba standing with his back to the entrance, a gun in hand and pointed directly at Asami.

Kirishima had to act quickly, but the thought of Takaba harboring any violent tendencies gave him pause. His rational brain had a difficult time reconciling the fact. Still, he had always trusted his instincts, and he would not ignore them now, regardless of whatever his perceived reality was.

A silence descended in the office, and ever so cautiously, Kirishima moved over slightly to peek in. He couldn't see Takaba's face, but he did see his employer's - hard, focused, and deadly - as Asami's attention was trained solely on the photographer. Then, for just a fleeting second, those eyes flickered over to him, a silent signal that told Kirishima exactly what he needed to do.

"Takaba, what are you doing?" Asami asked mechanically in the way of distraction, not giving the younger man any indication that Kirishima was right outside.

Stealthily, and with the smooth motions acquired from years on the job, Kirishima slipped into the room, mentally thanking the maintenance staff for keeping the door hinges so well-oiled.

"What do you think, Asami? Mr. Arbatov there probably told you the whole story."

The boy didn't sound ... right. Kirishima kept his curiosity in check as he approached, gun and eyes trained on the photographer.

"Takaba ..."

"What, Asami? What are you going to do now?" A humorless chuckle came from the younger man as he straightened the arm that held the gun. "How does it feel to know that I could kill you right here, right now, and you can't do anything about it? How does it feel being so helpless?"

Kirishima raised his weapon as well, and pressed it assertively against the nape of the photographer's neck. "Not completely helpless," he said distinctly, ensuring that Takaba knew he was there.

The younger man tensed at the touch of the cold metal, but he made no move to lower his gun. "Kirishima, what are you going to do? Shoot me? You won't. Asami would never sanction my death."

Kirishima glanced over at his employer whose narrowed, unreadable eyes neither refuted nor confirmed that statement. But Kirishima knew. He heard Asami's agreement with Takaba's observation as if it had been shouted from the highest rooftops. That was how well he knew his boss.

But his brief pause cost him.

No sooner had he shifted his attention back to Takaba when the younger man whipped around. He moved so fast, and so abruptly that Kirishima wasn't prepared for the force with which Takaba's free arm knocked his. His gun flew out of his grip and clattered across the floor. Before Kirishima could recover, Takaba's Walther dug into his temple, knocking his glasses askew.

"Who's helpless now, Kirishima?"

The secretary ground his teeth together, silently cursing himself for being so careless. Yet, as he straightened to look directly at Takaba, he noticed a white blur of movement in the corner of his eye. And just as quickly as the gun had been pressed to his head, it disappeared with a dull 'whack' and a heavy thud. The overwhelming smell of liquor laced the air, and Kirishima took a reactionary step back to avoid being cut by the shards of flying glass.

Readjusting his glasses, he watched Asami stride over to Takaba's prone body to check on the unconscious boy. Then, his gaze moved over to Mikhail Arbatov who looked amusedly at the remains of the broken scotch bottle in his hand. When the Russian man noticed the attention on him, he shrugged and dropped the jagged glass.

"What?" Mikhail said with mock innocence. "Neither of you were going to hurt him, and we would've been stuck here until Judgment Day if I left it to you guys. Someone had to stop him."

Kirishima suppressed a sigh at the abrasiveness of foreigners. He kept his expression neutral, and effectively hid any censure he felt.

The blond man, seeing nothing wrong with his actions, walked back to the chair he'd been occupying earlier, and plopped himself down. He picked up his glass and gulped the remainder of its contents. A frown marred his face. "Pity that we wasted the rest of this really good scotch." Then, he glanced over at Asami. "Now, does anyone find it weird that our boy over there spoke to me in Russian, or that he just disarmed your secretary with a move they teach in the Russian military?"

(***)

"It's your move, Takaba."

Takaba stared at the man sitting across from him, then down at the table between them, and then back at the man again. A cheap suit that tried to pass itself off as expensive, greased-back hair that was several inches too long to be respectable, and slightly angled eyes that bespoke a tempered malice ... Takaba blinked. He knew this man. He'd seen him multiple times before, had conversed with him, had fought with him.

Kitagawa.

But he was dead, wasn't he?

At least, Asami had told him Kitagawa was dead.

So why was he here?

"Your move, Takaba," Kitagawa repeated.

Takaba looked down again at the table, and finally registered the chess pieces all neatly arranged in front of him. This was a dream. It had to be. It had to be because it all seemed so vaguely familiar, as if he'd gone through these motions countless times before, but had forgotten how it all ended the moment he awoke.

He swallowed nervously, unsure of what he was supposed to do. "I-I don't know how to play," he said weakly.

Kitagawa smiled, a dark sadistic smile that sent shivers down Takaba's spine. "Well, that puts you at a disadvantage then, doesn't it? The man shrugged, and sat back in his chair, all relaxed and nonchalant. "Good for me, but bad for you."

A ripple of anxiety tickled the inside of Takaba's stomach as he bit his lower lip nervously. This was his dream. He should be able to guide its course. And yet ... yet, why did it feel like he was merely renting the space and time for this subconscious tableau? "Why are we playing?" he asked.

Kitagawa sat up and leaned up on the table with his elbows. He rolled his eyes at the obvious answer. "For control, of course."

"Control? Control of what?"

Dark, enigmatic eyes looked on with Takaba's as the subtle hint of a smirk tugged on Kitagawa's mouth. "You."

The answer should've affected Takaba in its directness. But for some unknown reason, it didn't. There was a certainty and an acceptance in that simple word, like Takaba had heard it many times already and had come to understand it as truth.

He had to make a move then, he concluded. He should move a piece on the silly chess board because that was what was expected of him now. His gaze danced over the meticulously carved pieces, his mind drawing a blank as to how or what he was supposed to move. He was not a strategist, and he definitely never had the patience to sit and learn the intricacies of the game. And still, his fingers skittered from rook to bishop, from knight to queen, all in an attempt to find that perfect move.

"Think carefully, Takaba," Kitagawa warned quietly. "One wrong move, and Asami dies."

That ripple of anxiety in his belly grew, slowly spreading until it consumed his whole core. With a shaking hand, Takaba picked up a piece and shifted it forward.

An amused laugh greeted his move. "Why am I not surprised? Of course you would move the pawn. Ironic, but stupid. You just exposed your king." Kitagawa leaned over and placed his knight on the square close to where his pawn had been. "Check."

Takaba watched the board with equal parts confusion and dread. He didn't know much about the game, but he knew he wasn't in a good position.

"I suppose this means that Asami is as good as dead," Kitagawa stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

No. No, Asami was not going to die, Takaba wanted to shout. But somehow, his voice had deserted him, leaving him with nothing but a sense of helpless despair. No, Asami couldn't die because he was strong, and powerful, and so goddamn perfect ... and because Takaba would never let that happen.

Anger started to build within him - anger at seeing Kitagawa's smug face, anger at the threat to Asami, and anger at himself for not being able to do anything about it.

Wait. No, he could do something about it. He could save Asami. He didn't know how, but he didn't care. He would rather himself die in the attempt than to let the bastard sitting across from him have the satisfaction of destroying the one thing he held most dear, the one thing he truly ... loved.

His body firmed up with resolve, and his lips thinned into a determined line as he stared at Kitagawa. And then ... then, with the impulsiveness inherent in his nature, he flipped the table over. Chess pieces, black and white projectiles that fell like dichromatic hail, arched through the air, pelting the walls, the floor, and Kitagawa. But Takaba didn't stay to watch. He stood, and turned, and ran. He found the door to the airless room, and ran, and ran, and ran.

(***)

Mikhail watched as Asami's secretary bound an unconscious Takaba's wrists, and secured the younger man to the chair. Kirishima moved efficiently, silently, and with purpose as he cinched the zip ties and knotted the ropes. Absently, Mikhail wondered why Alexei didn't work with the same focus. Obviously, his assistant hadn't graduated from the same 'School for Exemplary Henchmen of Criminal Masterminds' as Asami's. Sometimes, he wondered why his life wasn't as charmed as others.

He leaned back casually against Asami's massive desk as his attention drifted over to his Japanese counterpart. The man hadn't said a word since he'd knocked Takaba senseless, but if Asami's expression could've gotten any more hardened, Mikhail was positive he could shatter it with a simple tap. Now that the man's would-be assassin was tied up, he secretly wondered what the Japanese yakuza would do.

"Who do you think will wake up?" he asked instead.

Asami threw him a pointed stare, as if he'd just disturbed some engrossing train of thought.

Mikhail nodded in Takaba's direction, refusing to be cowed by the intimidating man. "Your killer or your Takaba, who do you think he'll be when he comes to his senses?"

"Does it really matter?"

Mikhail's shoulders moved up in a non-committal shrug as he pasted on his habitual half-smile. "I wouldn't have taken you for one to have any soft spots, Asami. You realize that your brat there has been brainwashed into killing you, right?"

Asami turned his gaze back to where Takaba sat, and gestured for Kirishima to stand by the door. "I do," he said stonily.

Getting a rise out of the man was damn near impossible, Mikhail mused. Still, he felt compelled to try. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

"Fix it."

A blond eyebrow arched up in disbelief. The arrogance of the great Asami Ryuichi never ceased to amaze him. "Fix it? You do understand that Takaba isn't some car you send to the shop for repair, right? And if you've read any of the findings in that file I brought you, you would see that none of the previous subjects were ever 'fixed'."

Asami didn't say anything. In fact, he didn't make any indication that he'd heard Mikhail at all, but the Russian man decided to elaborate nonetheless.

"For the brainwashing and everything to work, the programming and the natural consciousness have to become closely intertwined." He paused before continuing, somewhat curious if his upcoming conclusion would illicit some reaction. "You can't erase one without destroying the other, Asami."

Again, he received no response from the formidable yakuza, and he was beginning to wonder why he'd even bothered with all the niceties he'd been providing. Finally, Asami said, "He'll be alright."

The statement was spoken steadily, evenly, but if Mikhail wasn't mistaken, he swore he heard a hint of uncertainty in that tone, as if Asami had said it to reassure himself of its truth. So the invincible man did, in fact, have a crack in his armor. It was enough to convince Mikhail that Asami Ryuichi was indeed human.

"People like you and me, Asami," he said seriously, "we think ourselves untouchable, bulletproof. And to a certain extent, we are. But those close to us aren't." He glanced over at Takaba's unconscious form slouched lazily in the chair. The photographer's head lolled to the side, causing his hair to fall carelessly across his sleeping face. He appeared so young and vulnerable that Mikhail understood how even the Japanese yakuza's steeled heart could be affected. "When the bullets fly - and you know they will - they may bounce off you, Asami, but they ricochet. They ricochet to those standing nearest to you. Now, what will you do? Because Takaba there has taken a hell of a fucking bullet that was meant for you."

A heavy silence descended over the office when Mikhail finished speaking. His words lingered in the air, echoing with the honesty and damnable reality that they all pretended didn't exist, and it forced them to face the limits of their power. Mikhail hated himself for stating it after the fact, and he bet that Asami did now as well.

"A-Asami...?"

The sound was hoarse, groggy, as Takaba slowly regained his senses. Mikhail watched the bound man raise his head and try to blink away the fuzziness. But what interested him more was observing Asami's reaction.

The man stood where he was, tall and immutable, as he watched his younger lover with a stoic expression. "Takaba," he said with cool authority.

Mikhail noticed the exact moment that full awareness struck the photographer. One second, the brat twisted about sluggishly and awkwardly, and the next, he was moving and jerking at his bonds as if a bolt of electricity had been shot through him.

"Where am I? Why am I tied up?" Ephemeral eyes narrowed in accusation as they glared at Asami. "I swear, Asami, if this is one of your sick games again..." Then, that angry gaze turned to Mikhail, and a flash of surprise appeared in its changeable depths. "You!"

Mikhail gave the photographer a tiny salute in greeting. If there was one thing about Takaba that would get him into trouble in their world, it was how easy the boy was to read. His emotions and unbridled impetuosity, so clearly written on his face and in his body language, made no secret of his thoughts. And secrets were currency in their business. "Takaba," Mikhail answered. "I would like to say you're looking well, but then, I would be lying, and we can't have that. I've got a reputation to uphold and all that."

Takaba scrutinized him with a blank look, and belatedly, Mikhail realized that he'd responded in Russian. Strange, he thought, considering how the photographer had spoken flawless Russian just a little while ago. Obviously, the brat's alter ego also harbored various talents not known to the man himself. Luckily, Mikhail had the foresight to brush up on his Japanese, especially after the incident on Feilong's ship, and it was a decision he now applauded himself on. It allowed him the opportunity to observe under the guise of not understanding.

Apparently giving up on trying to decipher what Mikhail had said, Takaba turned to Asami. "What's _he_ doing here? What's going on, Asami?"

The Japanese yakuza stared steadily at his younger lover, not a single muscle moving. "What do you remember?"

Confusion shadowed Takaba's expression as he glanced down at the ground. "I-I don't ... Car. We were in the car. Then I took a shower. And ... and I went to bed."

This was interesting indeed, Mikhail noted quietly. "So you don't remember trying to kill Asami?" he interrupted aloud. He ignored the shock that appeared on Takaba's face at him speaking Japanese, and threw an amused glance over to Asami's secretary standing by the door. "Or Kirishima knocking you out with a liquor bottle?"

Kirishima's brow furrowed ever so slightly at his jibe, and Mikhail suppressed a chuckle at the reaction.

But naturally, Takaba didn't see the humor in his comment, and sought out Asami for answers. "Kill? Why would I try to kill...? Asami, what's going on? Let me go. We need to talk ... alone."

The photographer threw a venomous look at Mikhail, leaving the Russian man to wonder if Takaba had perhaps taken a couple of lessons on how to affect a 'death glare' from his lover.

Asami didn't respond immediately, and much to Mikhail's annoyance, didn't reveal anything of what might be going through his mind at that moment. And then, "I can't, Takaba."

"Can't? What are you talking about, Asami? You can't let me go? What kind of perverted game are you playing, you fucked up bastard? Let me go!" The chair started to rattle and rock as Takaba yanked wildly at his bonds.

Mikhail silently marveled at Asami's composure as the younger man swore up a storm. He was surprised himself at how violently the brat was trying to escape his ropes. But there Asami was, walking calmly over to his assistant.

Suddenly, the room quieted, and an unexpected chill trickled down Mikhail's spine. The hairs on his arm stood on end, and his body tensed involuntarily. And judging by Asami and Kirishima's stiff movements, they felt it too.

"Then you had better run, Asami." The voice was too gravelly, too ... too sinister to have come from Takaba. And yet, it had. The three of them - Asami, Kirishima, and himself - were riveted by the sudden change in the photographer's entire demeanor. They couldn't believe what they saw or what they heard, but there it was - Takaba sitting stock still and ramrod straight. The promise of something dark and deadly lingered in the photographer's hooded gaze as it fell on his older lover. "Run, Asami," Takaba repeated, "because when I'm free, you're a dead man."

End Chapter 5


End file.
